


Like the Rifle

by ADeedWithoutaName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack Fic, Gen, Humor, almost wincest, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: Hunting comes naturally when your brother's a gun.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 60





	Like the Rifle

**Author's Note:**

> This is the dumbest thing I've ever written. I'd like to say it's the dumbest thing I'll ever write, but I know deep in my heart I can get way dumber.

Dhake wanted a cigarette.

Months since he'd quit, and the physical symptoms were gone. The shakes, the headaches, the insomnia (though that was sort of normal for him, especially these days). He'd known about the psychological cravings, everyone mentioned how they were worse, but. He hadn't known just how _much_ worse. Especially when he was nervous, anxious. Which was pretty much always, in this new job.

He'd been warned about that, too. And he hadn't known just how bad it would be, either.

He wanted a cigarette. He settled for a Diet Coke.

It was mid-afternoon at the only burger joint in town, and he was the only person here, sitting outside despite the damp chill hanging heavy in the air. The staff were gearing up for the dinner rush and did not want him here. The two waitresses, one wiping tables down inside and the other putting up umbrellas out here with him, kept giving him dirty looks. Dhake did feel bad. But he didn't move.

He'd rather meet these guys in a public place.

Howie - just about the only other hunter Dhake had found himself able to stand in the past eight months - had had plenty to tell him. They were real bigshots in the community. Legends, pretty much. Had a couple averted apocalypses under their belts, apparently (sure). They were good people, you could trust them. So long as you were also good people, and didn't wind up on their bad side. Or get between the two of them.

"Yeah, I get that," Dhake had said. "I had a couple guys like that, only ones I felt comfortable watching my back. Wish I had 'em now, actually."

"Nah...it ain't that. Or, well, partly. But not full on." Howie rubbed at the graying stubble on his lantern jaw. They were on the phone, so Dhake couldn't see him, but he heard the rough, bristly sound, knew what it was. "See, they're brothers, first of all. Raised in this bullshit, don't even ask me what their dad was thinking. Crazy son of a bitch, from what I've heard, and it. Well, kinda runs in the family."

"You sure I wanna take up with these guys?"

"No, no. They're good hunters. The best. Real good with weird shit, so you kinda need 'em for this one." Howie paused. "But there are some...rumors."

"What kinda rumors?"

"I imagine you'll pick up on it when you meet 'em."

"The more you talk, the less I wanna do this, Howie."

"They're fine, trust me. Just don't block one's line of sight to the other and you'll do great."

He'd already called them. The Winchesters. Biggest name in hunting, apparently. So Dhake couldn't back out, bad as he wanted to.

When a car pulled into the parking lot, Dhake turned automatically to look, tensing a little. Immediately, he sucked his teeth. Howie had told him they drove a classic car. And Dhake didn't know shit about cars, but he would guess that this one fit the bill.

It was big, black, and ostentatious. Practically screamed to be noticed. Dhake had heard a little bit about these guys back in his previous life, the whole serial killer thing, and if they'd been driving _this_ around, he had no idea how they'd stayed off the cops' radar. Or the radar of all the other people who'd wanted to kill them over the years, which Howie had said was a lot. Maybe some of those were because of their stupid car.

The engine cut out and a guy climbed out on the driver's side. He was big, over six feet, stocky through the chest and stomach, but all muscle. Thirties or rough forties, but still unexpectedly good-looking for a hunter, brush-cut hair somewhere in the space between blonde and brown. As Dhake watched, he reached into the car, grabbed something, and slung it over his back.

Dhake's stomach sagged a little inside him when he saw it was a rifle. Good thing they were in rural Oregon; otherwise, the guy would be getting nervous side-eyes from the staff. Maybe they would have already called the police.

 _Great,_ Dhake thought to himself. _One of these guys._ His ears were already ringing with all the "I would've enlisted, but I woulda punched the drill sergeant as soon as he got in my face."

"Hey." The guy came up to the table. Dhake noted the slightly bowed legs, the deep, gravelly voice. "Bradley Dhake?"

"Uh huh." Dhake stood, offered a hand. The guy took it. "Winchester?"

"Yep."

"Which one are you?"

"Dean." Dean let go of his hand, took the seat across from him. He was careful with the rifle, at least. Didn't knock it against anything.

Dhake glanced at the car as he sat back down himself, able to tell even from here it was empty. "So where's the other one?"

"Just me today." Dean assured him, "You got lucky. Other one's a huge pain in the ass."

"Okay." Whatever. Probably for the best. Howie had given him bad intel, though, if they were cool with traveling and working cases alone; blocking one's line of sight to the other, his ass. "How much Howie tell you about what I've got?"

"Yeah, you got girl trouble," Dean breezily replied. "Of course you needed me."

There was an annoyed sigh. Dhake glanced over at the nearest waitress. She wasn't looking at him, but it couldn't have been anybody but her, so he gave her the "two minutes" sign and an apologetic half-smile.

"Sorry," Dean said, and sobered. "I know the town's scared. The county, actually. Long pattern of missing persons, more than should usually get lost in the forest, running back centuries. And whatever it is decided to start ramping up its operation. Three guys in as many weeks."

Dhake looked at the waitress again, appalled Dean would just talk about it right out in the open, but she was all the way on the other side of the patio. Probably hadn't heard. Hopefully. Between the total disregard for his surroundings and the car, Dhake could hardly believe Dean had been hunting as long as he supposedly had. If he just spouted off about cases all over the place.

Dhake really needed the help, though. So he swallowed down his misgivings and asked, "You checked in at the motel?"

"The Ten-Point Lodge?" The town only had the one. "Haven't had a chance yet."

"We can head back there, then." Dhake stood, sliding a tip under his half-empty glass. He waited until they were in the parking lot to tell Dean, "Think I got it narrowed down. What's doing it, I mean."

Dean gave him an appraising look. "Really? Well. Can't wait to hear your theory."

Dhake tried to keep as much distance between his car and Dean's as possible on the way to the Lodge. Once Dean had a room, they headed to Dhake's. Again, Dean brought the rifle, slung over his back.

Dhake eyed it. "You bring that everywhere you go?" He was only slightly relieved by the fact the safety was on and the muzzle pointing at the ground.

"I gotta." Dean shrugged.

"I'm not gonna shoot you."

"I know you're not." Dean stood in the middle of Dhake's room, arms folded, and watched him get all his research out. After a little bit, he asked, "Where'd you serve?"

Dhake paused. Usually, it wasn't that obvious to people unless he told them. Or unless they'd been in themselves. "Afghanistan, then Syria."

"What branch?"

"Marines." Dhake waited for a crayon-eating joke. When it didn't come, he looked at Dean more carefully, his stance, the gun. His careful, halfway-haunted eyes, something grim flickering in the pupils. Usually, he could also spot another vet from a mile off, but… "You?"

"Nah." Dean shook his head. "My dad was a Marine too, though. Vietnam."

The one, Dhake remembered, who'd brought him up to hunt monsters. Him and the brother he was apparently not attached at the hip to, despite what Howie said. Something around Dhake's spine twitched.

If he'd found out about this stuff when he was a little kid, he might carry a gun everywhere, too. Just probably not a giant-ass rifle.

He felt just a little bit better as he set some books down on the room's rickety little table, unrolled a trail map of the county. "You read the police reports?"

"Uh huh," Dean replied. "Only eyewitness they've managed to interview so far said a whole bunch of pretty girls showed up at his and his buddy's campsite. Every dude's dream."

Dhake was absolutely not a little disappointed to hear him say that. "Except that when one of 'em turned around, it looked like she'd had her back scooped out."

"Cops chalked it up to booze and stress," Dean agreed. "How 'bout you?"

Dhake grabbed one of the books, flipped through it until he found a page he'd sticky-noted, and laid it down on top of the map. Dean leaned forward to peer at the illustration, frowning. A naked girl with her hair swept over one shoulder to show a hollow back and a tail like a cow's, standing in the middle of a forest.

Dean had crow's feet that made him look older than he was, and freckles that made him look younger. His eyes were the kind of green Dhake hadn't known anybody's actually were. Dhake cleared his throat.

"I'm pretty sure we're dealing with a huldra," Dhake told him. "A whole bunch, actually."

Dean glanced halfway over his shoulder, almost like he was looking at the gun. Must've heard the ice machine, only a few feet from Dhake's door, letting go.

"Fits the bill. Goes after men, right? Lures 'em out into the forest, and soon as they're alone and they figure out what they are…" Dean drew a finger across his throat, made a slicing noise. Dhake nodded. "So how do we kill it?"

"They're faery creatures, so. Iron and salt oughta do the trick." Dhake was suddenly uncertain. He'd never done any faeries before. "Right?"

"No, you got it." Dean straightened. "Good work."

Dhake couldn't help the little thump of pride he felt in his chest at that. It was dumb and he knew it. But Dean was more experienced than him by, probably, pretty much his entire life, and the longer they were in this room together, the more Dhake saw the side of him that must have kept him alive in a business with a mortality rate hovering somewhere around 95%.

"So everything looks right to you?" Dhake asked, just to make sure. He'd like to get at least a few more months in before he became part of that 95%.

Dean nodded, and there was what sounded like a grunt of assent. It didn't seem to come from him, though. Dhake straightened up from where he'd been leaning over the table and looked around, quick and guarded.

"You hear that?" he asked, voice low.

"Hear what?"

"Sounded like…" Dhake shook his head. "Never mind. 'S nothing." Probably just the radiator. The thing was about a million years old and it was cold out; it'd been making all kinds of weird noises the past couple days. "Anyway. I'd like to get in and out during the day. Seems like these things are stronger or at least braver at night, or maybe they're nocturnal, doesn't matter much. We can head up there tomorrow morning if there's nothing else you wanna do."

"Yeah, that's not gonna fly." Dean shook his head, then explained: "It's Thursday night, and it's a long weekend for most of these guys. There'll be dozens of hunters from all over the state heading into those woods. We wait 'til tomorrow morning, we're already gonna have at least one more vic on our hands. Probably more."

"And if we go up there tonight, those vics are gonna be us," Dhake pointed out. The pride was gone. Budding exasperation had taken its place.

"Nah. They won't, we know what we're doing." Dean sucked in a deep breath. "Look, maybe you're good letting somebody else die, but we're not."

Dhake felt himself squint at the "we." Used to speaking for himself and his brother, maybe… "It's already midafternoon. Sunset's only a couple hours away."

"Guess we better move fast, then," Dean replied as he turned to leave the room.

And Dhake was back to wondering how in the hell this dumbass was even still alive.

* * *

Dean hadn't bothered changing before they hit the trail; he was still in jeans and steel-toed shitkickers. The boots especially were absolutely not meant for hiking, but Dhake wasn't going to get between him and the blisters he so obviously wanted. Plus, none of Dhake's shoes would have fit, even if he'd offered. The guy was sort of enormous.

Dhake started out in front. He'd been up and down every single one of these trails twice over the past week, after all. But as the path narrowed, Dean wound up in front of him. Dhake let him do that, too. There was some kind of weird protectiveness at work that irritated the hell out of him. He was new, yeah, a baby compared to Dean, but not helpless. He had extra rounds in his pack, and the SIG holstered on his thigh would be a hell of a lot easier to get to than Dean's rifle when they ran into trouble.

Dhake could admit one thing, though. If you discounted heading into the woods literally right before sunset, and wearing the world's worst boots for hiking ever, Dean clearly knew what he was doing. He was extremely aware of his surroundings, on a constant sweep of the trees and ferns around them, knew where he was going. It was like he'd memorized the map with one look. Dhake was grudgingly impressed by his sense of direction. None of this really explained how he wasn't dead, but bit by bit, he guessed he was picking up the breadcrumbs of how and why the guy was as famous as he was. Maybe it was a good thing he was leading.

It was really throwing him off. The weird mix of crazy clever and fuck-all stupid that made up Dean Winchester. He tried to find something else to focus on.

Walking behind him, Dhake finally had a good view of Dean's rifle, even partially covered by his pack. Walnut so dark it was almost black shone with caramel highlights, lovingly polished. Sparse filigree wound around the blued steel of the barrel, in some kind of familiar blue-green-brown-gray color Dhake couldn't quite identify. And it was _long,_ easily four or five inches taller than any other rifle he'd ever seen. He thought it might be a Winchester, it had that look, but...he wouldn't have been able to name the model even if it was pointed at him.

He was surprised Dean didn't have it in a case, the way he babied it, made sure it didn't knock into anything. It wasn't raining, but it was fall in the Pacific Northwest, so it was only a matter of time. Especially with the clouds overhead. Dhake wished he'd checked the forecast before they got out of service range.

He was still eyeing the gun, giving himself a headache trying to puzzle out the model, when he heard Dean mumble something under his breath. Dhake barely caught it over the ambient rustle of the forest.

"Too bad the timing couldn't have worked out better, you'd have loved this."

Then Dean snorted. It was a weird noise, because it...didn't sound like him. The timbre was off compared to his normal voice. Dhake would have been looking for a huldra, but they were all women, and it had definitely been a guy.

"What'd you say?" Dhake asked.

"Don't worry about it," Dean replied. "Wasn't talking to you."

Dhake shook his head, letting out a snort of his own. Then figured he maybe ought to cut the guy some slack. It would be downright impossible not to go crazy, doing this kind of work. Like being a soldier, but also you got none of the training and prep, and your entire worldview got flipped violently on its head in a blur of blood and teeth. And from what he'd been told, Dean had been at this since he was a toddler. Just what kind of psycho asshole was his dad, anyway? To drag kids into this?

His dad, Dhake realized, really might explain a lot.

They walked in silence for a while. But they weren't really deep enough yet to start worrying about monsters, so Dhake cleared his throat. He should really reach out. They were, after all, partners, at least for the duration of this hunt.

"That a custom piece?" he asked.

"What?" Dean squinted at him over his shoulder.

"The rifle."

"Oh. Yeah...you could say that." There was something odd in Dean's voice.

"Is it a Winchester? Didn't know they did customs."

"Well, it sure looks like one," Dean said. Then he sighed like he was annoyed, and it had that same weird timbre to it.

Maybe Dhake should drop it. But, honestly, it pissed him off, the whiplash between being impressed and being what-the-fucked. He could excuse a lot of it, but this guy was just such a fucking weirdo, crazy-ass "Fortunate Son" dad or not.

"It's nice-looking," Dhake pressed with an edge in his voice. "Real nice."

Dean scoffed. It sounded like him. "He ain't _that_ great." But he reached up as soon as he said it, giving the stock a fond little pat of apology.

Dhake had run into plenty of guys who'd used people pronouns for their guns before. It wasn't his thing, sort of got under his skin some. But they all seemed to think their guns were girls. At least he could be reasonably sure Dean didn't want to fuck the rifle...although, seeing as his hand was still on the stock, kind of stroking some, he might have to swap out that "reasonably" for "halfway."

He should _not_ be a teeny-tiny bit happy about that.

Dhake's eyes were on Dean's hand when he noticed the symbol in the checkering. Something like a flaming pentagram, large and well-placed on the stock. Dhake had seen that before.

"So, somebody in the - in the life make it for you?" Dhake stumbled over the terminology. "A hunter? The symbol, that pentagram thing…"

"Yeah," Dean repeated, "you could sure say that."

Dhake had finally figured out what that weird emotion in Dean's voice (his normal voice, not the one Dhake had been hearing all the little noises in) was: amusement. Like he was in on a joke Dhake wasn't. It was driving Dhake nuts and, the more he thought about it, making him mad.

"Fine." He may or may not have snapped. "We don't gotta talk."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at him, raised his eyebrows, then faced forward again. Like he couldn't figure out who'd shit in Dhake's cereal this morning. Dhake just shook his head. If this one actually was the tolerable Winchester, like he'd said, he'd hate to see the other one.

They hiked the rest of the way in silence. Except for when Dean, very quietly, said, "Don't." Dhake didn't even bother asking what the hell he was talking about, and it didn't happen again.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, not true evening yet but definitely the tail end of afternoon, by the time they came to a stop in what looked like an old campsite. The ground had been flattened and cleared, a neat circle of stones set up in the center for a firepit. No one had probably been here this year, but it had been taken care of.

"This oughta be a good place to set up base," Dean announced, looking around. "Right in the middle of all the sites that got attacked, right?"

When he turned his attention to him, Dhake called up a mental image of the map, nodded. "Yeah. So we're probably right in the middle of these things' hunting grounds."

"Uh huh." Dean sniffed. "You ordained?"

"Wh - no, of course not." He'd put Presbyterian down when he joined up, the most normal option he could think of, been brought up a casual pseudo-Hindi. Even before all this, his belief in any god had been low enough to send a man of the cloth into cardiac arrest. "In what religion?"

"Doesn't matter, but you might wanna get that taken care of soon. Good thing to have in your back pocket." Dean shrugged out of his pack, kept the rifle on. "Even those shifty websites work. Believe it or not, I've been a pastor, technically speaking, since I was about sixteen. I could marry myself if I wanted to." Dean winked at Dhake. "And who wouldn't want to?"

Dhake heard a snort. He spun around, scanned the woods, before he realized it was the same snort he'd heard earlier. From Dean. Who didn't seem to be concerned, whether it had come from him or not, so Dhake forced himself calm and watched Dean consecrate the campsite.

It seemed to involve a lot of holy water and chanting in Latin. When he wasn't chanting, he was explaining.

"See, fae can't enter holy ground. And with so many of 'em out there, feel like we need a place to defend."

And there it was again: the cleverness. Dhake found himself nodding, because it was smart.

He was just about to suggest they start working on a game plan to try and track these things down when there was a shaky "H-hello?" from behind them.

It was a woman's voice. Dhake turned when Dean did, saw a girl standing on the trail they'd come up. She was muddy, boots and jeans and windbreaker on, blonde hair pulled back in a braid tugged messy by the twigs that were still stuck in it. Even as he watched, the tears that had already been threatening filled her big brown eyes.

"Thank god," she said, choked up. "Please. Help me."

Dhake's suspicions started dissolving when she began to cry. Dean took a step forward, picking up his pack.

"What's the matter?" he asked her.

"W-we were hunting. We came up for the weekend." She swallowed, struggling to keep her voice under control. "We'd just got back to camp. I was making dinner, then these girls showed up. My fiance, and my brother…" A sob tore out of her. "I-I ran. I need help. I don't know what…"

Dhake glanced at Dean while she was talking, who was already looking at him. When she trailed off, Dean took another step towards her, hands up.

"Calm down." His voice was gruff, authoritative, but not unkind. Dhake recognized it. Comforting a civilian, tacking down the edges of her panic. "It's okay. What's your name?"

"Chloe." She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand. "M-my fiance, he's Joe. My brother's Steve."

"Okay." Dean nodded. "Can you take us back to your campsite?"

"I-I think so," Chloe said hesitantly, then hiccuped, teary.

"Lead the way, then."

She turned, glancing back over her shoulder once or twice to make sure they were following. They were, Dhake closest to her, stomach furled up unpleasantly inside him as he thought about the fact her family would've been dead by the time they headed out the next morning, if they'd played this the way he wanted.

He looked at her braid. Her big, loose jacket. He wondered if it was her fiance's, offered unthinkingly to her when she complained about being cold. He gritted his teeth and felt sick, the jolt running all the way into his fingertips, at the thought they might be too late.

That was what he hated most about this whole thing. How goddamn personal it was, the people he couldn't save. How it made even the wins feel like hollow victories.

They were about ten minutes out from the consecrated campsite, following Chloe, when Dhake realized that the wet grind of Dean's boots had stopped behind him. He stopped himself, turning around with unease rolling damp down his back before he could stop it.

Dean stood a few yards back, head cocked like he was trying to hear something better. The angle almost made it look like he was listening to his gun. He looked up the trail towards Dhake and Chloe after a couple seconds, calling, "Hey, Chloe."

Dhake looked at her. She stopped and turned around too, still teary and cold-looking.

"Could you do me a favor real quick?" Dean asked her.

"Um. Sure." It was getting slowly darker, colder.

"Take your jacket off."

Dhake looked at Dean, about to ask him what the hell he was doing, but the look on the guy's face stopped him dead. There was something steely deep in there that he absolutely did not want to butt heads with.

Chloe pulled her jacket off, almost immediately starting to shiver in nothing but a pink thermal shirt. Dhake could see his breath now. He was about to tell her to put the windbreaker back on and privately ask Dean what the hell he thought he was doing when he realized he couldn't see hers.

"Turn around," Dean said calmly,

And that was when she stopped shivering, and smiled, and her eyes looked way too bright for the time of day.

"Shit," said Dhake.

"Duck!" somebody bellowed. He didn't even register it hadn't been Dean's voice before he was down in a crouch as a rifle shot cracked through the forest. Chloe jerked as it ripped right through her in a way it shouldn't have. Like her back was hollow.

She staggered backwards with wetness that wasn't blood spreading across the front of her shirt, right at her breastbone. Swayed. Then fell apart like a rotting log. It was moss and loamy earth and a weird, glittering slime that hit the ground, and a reek of woodland decay that had nothing to do with the forest around them hit Dhake full in the face.

He looked behind himself, breathing hard, buckets of adrenaline pounding so brutal through his system it hurt. Dean was there, pack on the ground, rifle in his arms and now lowered.

He got hold of that gun _really_ fast, Dhake thought inanely to himself.

"We gotta get back to that campsite," Dean said tensely. His voice had dropped half an octave, and picked up another few handfuls of gravel. "Now."

"Dean," Dhake answered, urgently.

Dean spun on his heels just in time to see the two women stepping out onto the trail behind him. The two _things,_ Dhake guessed, because these ones weren't even trying. They were naked, dirt on their skin and leaves in their hair, bark creeping up arms and legs from hands and feet. Ivy and ferns spilled out around their hips and arched over their heads like they were growing from the holes in their backs, and their faces didn't look human. The ears were long and pointed, the eyes bright, too big. There was something wrong with the mouths.

Dhake scrambled for his gun. He heard movement, whipped his head left to see a third one darting out of the forest, coming straight for him. Training took over, movements locking in, icy numb calm descending on the panic coursing underneath. The shot he fired went wide anyway. He didn't even know where it hit. The huldra melted back into the woods despite that, mouth open and a sound like wind in the leaves pouring out. A hiss.

Dhake looked for Dean. He saw the rifle swing naturally in his hands, one finger squeeze the trigger in an expert motion. An empty casing jumped, glittering. The shot hit one of two he was dealing with in the shoulder, and her arm disintegrated as she screamed. She scrambled away, the rest of her slowly crumbling. The second shot Dean took missed the other one, but with the way her ferns trembled, Dhake was pretty sure it wasn't by much.

There was rustling all around them. Dhake saw eyes in trees, under leaves, through ferns. Laughter like snapping branches began to slowly fill the forest, sharp and mocking.

"Run," Dean said, backing up towards Dhake, rifle still held at the ready. He looked at him, and said it again, this time as a bellow: "Run!"

Dhake scrambled to his feet, holstered his gun, took off with Dean behind him. The guy kept up shockingly well for his age, moving a hell of a lot faster than those bandy legs of his would have suggested. When Dhake looked past him, he saw huldras all around them, moving through the forest like deer. He thought about firing at them, realized halfway through the thought itself how goddamn stupid that would be.

He wasn't sure if they actually managed to outstrip them, or if the monsters just let them gain some ground. The way so many predators did. But the laughter faded out eventually, the unnatural forest sounds, and the glowing eyes and naked bodies vanished bit by bit. Until it was just the two of them, running, breath coming out of them in long white streamers as they sucked and blew and Dhake fervently prayed not to twist an ankle charging down increasingly narrow trails, despite his shaky agnosticism. Just trying to get away from even the faintest suggestion of huldra noise.

By the time they found the cabin, the woods would have been shot through with the blood of sunset, if the cloud cover hadn't thickened up while they were hauling ass. It was run-down, obviously abandoned, but it filled Dhake with the kind of relief only man-made things in wild places could. He bounded up onto the sagging porch, Dean practically at his hip.

"Still got a door," Dhake gasped out. "Hallelujah."

It had a knob, too. And a lock old enough to look and sound like pure iron, when he slammed it home. He backed away as Dean bent over to grab his knees, wheezing like an asthmatic in crisis. The rifle dangled off his chest. He'd carried it the whole way, like he was afraid of getting grabbed by it if he just let it hang from the strap.

Dhake looked around the interior of the cabin. One room, and apparently too deep in the woods for kids to even hike up and throw parties, since he didn't see any beer cans or graffiti anywhere. He didn't even smell weed. Just damp and rot.

He raked a hand back through his black hair, still cut barely past regulation-short four years out because he'd always liked how low-maintenance it was. His ears and scalp were freezing after the bolt through the forest, even under a healthy slick of sweat. Maybe he ought to grow it out.

"Not a runner?" he asked Dean. Listening to him struggle to catch his breath made him glad he'd quit smoking. Never mind how bad he wanted a cigarette right now. Or a whole damn pack.

"Nope," Dean managed. "Brother is. I ain't into that...masochist shit."

Dhake didn't figure that was too smart of him. Then wondered why in the hell he cared, as he took stock of their situation and tried to orient himself.

They had to be a mile and a half out from the site Dean had blessed. Probably more, the way he was now realizing those fucking things herded them. He had no idea where they were. There hadn't been any cabins on the map...and those last couple trails they'd come down had felt more like deer paths.

"Can you holy up this place too, Pastor?" Dhake asked Dean, who shook his head.

"Left my pack behind," he replied grimly. "Didn't have time to grab it. All the holy water was in there. Rosary, too, so I can't make more." He eyed Dhake's bag. "What you got?"

"Ammo," Dhake responded, "flashlights, regular water, protein bars, couple knives, and...more ammo."

Dean blew out a breath as he slowly straightened, wincing like he had a stitch somewhere. "Great."

He'd automatically gone back to holding the rifle, index finger resting straight against the trigger guard, thumb of his other hand rubbing back and forth against the walnut like he was trying to soothe the gun. Dhake squinted. He didn't say anything, though.

He halfway wanted to ask if things could get any worse. He knew better. But thunder cracked enormous overhead anyway, barely seconds after lightning had flickered through the trees, and then rain dumped itself onto the roof. In near unison, Dhake and Dean raised their eyes to it as it began almost immediately to leak, and then looked back down at each other.

"I didn't even say it," Dhake said, helplessly.

"Murphy's law," Dean replied. And when there was a giggle outside, trilling like a birdcall, he repeated it. "Murphy's _fucking_ law."

"Really wish we had your brother right now," Dhake said tensely as he scanned the windows. Not that it did him much good, the storm had dropped night over them like a tarp. "Could use the extra set of eyes. And hands."

"Trust me, he's kinda useless right now. His time of the month." Dhake didn't even bother parsing that. Dean patted the stock of the rifle. "Hey, cover me."

He put the muzzle on the toe of his boot, reached for his pocket, started to reload. It kept getting darker. Dhake pulled his pistol out again and dug a flashlight free from his backpack, holding it over the SIG as he put his back to Dean and kept watch. He couldn't hear much over the rain, which had only started coming down harder since the storm began, the roof leaking in forty different places. He couldn't even hear the rounds finding their way home. He did, however, think he heard Dean mutter, "Knock it off" at one point, and had to look at him. Dean was staring down at the rifle, and Dhake couldn't imagine he was talking to him.

Seeing him shoot, and running for his life with him, had made him temporarily forget the crazy that hung off the guy like chains off a rapper. He just hoped it turned out to be "annoying" crazy and not "get my ass killed" crazy. So far, it was leaning towards the former, but he mostly just wished he'd never hopped into this with Dean Winchester in the first place.

Dean finished fast. Dhake dropped his pack, close enough for both of them to reach, then pressed his back to Dean's. Nuttier than a Payday bar or not, the solidity of the guy was comforting. He watched the windows, waiting tensely for faces to appear.

"We're gonna have to finish this tonight," Dean told him. Loud, to be heard over the rain. His voice rumbled through Dhake's ribs, and he swallowed. "They're not gonna let us leave. And even if they did, they'd pick us off the second we set foot in here again. They know we're here to wipe 'em out."

"Yep," Dhake tensely agreed. He was still thinking, firmly as he could, about the clear evidence of Dean being so far off his rocker he was miles away from it. Totally not to keep his mind off his voice. The warmth of him. Then he remembered something. "Hey." He glanced over his shoulder, kept his eyes on the windows he was covering. "Who told me to duck?"

"What?"

"Earlier, somebody told me to duck, right before you took the first one of these things down," Dhake said, deliberately. "Who was it?"

"It was me."

"No, it wasn't. It wasn't your voice. It was a lot higher."

He heard Dean stifle a snort. He would've glared at him if his attention wasn't glued to the windows, empty eyes out into the rain and the woods, where things were definitely moving but not clearly enough for him to fire.

"Yeah, that's what my voice sounds like when I get scared," Dean told him.

Dhake sighed explosively through his nose. Frustration was snarled in every muscle. He wondered if they had enough time to have this conversation. Probably not. Distraction killed. But for some reason, he just couldn't lock this away.

"If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being lied to," Dhake told Dean. He would have liked to growl it out, but practically had to shout over the rain. "I barely know you. And mostly all I know of you right now is you're a crack shot, which is great, and a fucking liar. Which isn't. I don't like working with somebody I can't trust. And obviously, I can't trust you."

Dean didn't say anything at first. When he did, it was flat and calm.

"If you really think I'm hiding something, it's not anything that's gonna get you killed."

"Thanks, man," Dhake said with a scoff. "That really makes me feel a lot better."

"I'm kinda your only option to get outta this, whether you trust me or not," Dean pointed out.

"Don't fucking remind me."

And then there was a huldra leaning in through one of the windows, hair hanging wet and lush around her face. Dhake hadn't even seen her approach. "Hello, boys - "

Dhake shot her without thinking. She flipped backwards with leaf mold streaming from her forehead, and he felt pathetically good about finally making contact with one. Then another opened the door.

"Welcome to our cabin," she purred. "So glad you found your way here."

Dhake heard the rifle jam. Dean swore loudly. Dhake swung around him, gun up, and hit the huldra that had just come through the door center-mass, scattering moss across the ground.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Dean exclaimed, jerking at the bolt.

"It's cold, okay? This has never happened before!"

And Dhake's ears might have been ringing from the recent shots. But not so much he couldn't tell that that had absolutely not been Dean's voice.

"That's him." Dhake turned on Dean, gun automatically lowering. "That's the guy from earlier. From all goddamn day, are you wearing a radio or - ?"

"Move!" Dean bellowed, and Dhake sidestepped so he could take down another huldra, this one crawling through the window with raindrops shaking off the oyster mushrooms on her shoulders. Dean whooped and lifted his rifle, apparently unjammed. "There we go, attaboy!"

"Are you not even gonna - ?" Dhake began to demand.

But he was cut off by the cacophony outside, rising to almost drown out the rain. Hissing, calling, mocking laughter. Sounding angrier and angrier with each one of their sisters that the two of them killed. Feet crossed the boards of the porch, hands beat against the outside walls, leaves and ferns rustled at the windows. The opportunity for any kind of conversation had officially passed.

Dhake slammed his back against Dean's again, gun up, plenty angry himself but completely unable to vent it on anything but the huldras. He could only hope Dean was telling the truth about whatever he was hiding not getting him killed.

It was gonna be a long, long night.

If he survived.

* * *

It was past dawn by the time they finally made it out of the forest.

Dhake's pack was a hell of a lot lighter on his shoulders, with most of the ammo he'd carried out spent. Dean's was hanging wet and filthy off him, retrieved at his surly insistence. Dhake was every bit as muddy as the bag, soaked to the bone, his hands and face and ears aching numb with the damp cold, and he was sure Dean felt exactly the same. He trailed behind Dean, watching the way he kept one hand on his rifle. Holding it as they walked.

He was good with it, last night and this morning. Better than anybody Dhake had ever seen before. The thing practically seemed to move and fire on its own half the time, hit the target nine times out of ten, an accuracy rate he still couldn't quite wrap his head around. Too bad Dean obviously cared about it (and whatever secret he was keeping) more than he ever would another person.

They'd left behind over two dozen dead huldra, if Dhake had counted right. Then there had been a painstaking sweep of the forest to make sure there weren't any others, because neither of them had wanted to come back. All they found were camps full of hunters, normal hunters, most of whom weren't in any distress at all as they got started on their days, so obviously the two of them had drawn all the fire last night. Dhake was fervently wishing he would have taken at least one of the cups of coffee they were offered instead of needling Dean into hurrying the hell up.

Dhake didn't say anything as they walked back from the trailhead. Neither did Dean. It wasn't far to the motel and they hadn't taken a car. Dean cleared his throat once the sign was within sight.

"I'm gonna go grab breakfast," he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "You want anything? Or you wanna come with?"

"I'm gonna take a shower," Dhake said tightly, "and then lay in bed for the next two days."

"Fair enough, fair enough." Dean nodded, then hesitated. "Hey."

Very reluctantly, Dhake looked at him. His face was cold-chapped, hair wet, eyes heavy and bagged. One cheek was bark-grazed and scratches ran across his forehead and into his hairline. He'd fallen into the exhausted, wounded look so naturally it practically seemed like his natural state.

"You did good out there," Dean said seriously. "I wasn't sure what to expect when I heard you were a newbie, but...good job."

Dhake allowed him a nod, wondering if they were going to address the elephant in the room. There was a long, tense silence, both of them staring at each other, breath steaming. But apparently not, because Dean awkwardly wandered off towards his big black arrest-waiting-to-happen, and Dhake went to his room.

He dropped off his stuff. Pack, gun, coat on the bed. He was just about to strip down as far as he could go and drag himself into a shower he intended to last as long as the motel's hot water did when he stopped. He stood for a moment, then left his room and went to Dean's, picking his way in and locking the door again behind him.

He pulled a quick sweep, knowing there was no one to catch him in here but Dean. The place was probably booked end to end, but the other rooms would be taken by hunters who were all up in the forest. He found nothing. There really wasn't a lot in the room; telltale sign of a guy who was used to living in places like this. He guessed the only thing that anybody might think was odd was that the clothes in Dean's duffel bag were a mix of two different sizes, but whatever, maybe the guy just didn't check tags.

Dhake heard the growl of an engine he was already getting familiar with. He made sure everything was where it'd been when he came into the room, then stepped into the shallow little closet, pressing his back to the wall and closing the door almost all the way. He waited.

He couldn't stand being lied to. He'd had more than e-fucking-nough of that during his service. And this...he couldn't shake the feeling it was something bad. Something he needed to know about. He was gonna figure it out if it killed him.

He was a hunter now. He figured out other people's deadly secrets, what they didn't want him to know, for a living, right? This was his whole life now. And if it was nothing, just something stupid, he'd leave Dean alone.

But he sure as hell wasn't ever gonna work with him again.

Dean came into the room with a greasy paper bag in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, kicking the door shut behind him and setting both down on the table. He still had the gun on his back. And he was talking to himself.

"You better watch it if you don't want me to stick you in your case and lock you in the trunk 'til tonight."

Or Dhake had thought he was talking to himself, at least. He amended that assessment soon as he heard that other voice. The higher one.

"I don't know how many times I've gotta tell you." Whoever he was, he sounded sulky, exasperated. "It was _cold._ "

"Yeah? Been cold before."

"Well, it was damp too, and y'know what, it's not like you've never had performance issues before, dude."

Dhake had sort of suspected it, after what he'd heard in the forest. Part of him had thought maybe it was just the ambient noise, the racket the rain and the huldras made, fucking with his ears. But now, he was positive: that voice wasn't coming through any kind of radio or speaker. It was way too clear, not even the barest hint of static or crackle hung off the edges like lace. The only thing was a metallic quality he wasn't even sure he was really hearing, and that might just be the guy's voice.

Dean snorted. "Yeah...sure I have. Keep dreaming, Sammy. This engine don't stall."

"Y'know, I used to talk to your girlfriends," Sam (apparently) said dryly.

Dhake supposed it could be some kind of super high-quality, brand-new transmitter, but he really doubted Dean would be the kind of guy to have new tech. Not after he'd seen his car.

"Rhea Wattkins. Wyoming, ninety-six."

Dean went quiet. "Shut up," he said after a couple seconds.

It could be magic too, Dhake guessed. The thing was he didn't know a whole lot about it yet, but he did know that most other hunters shied away from the mere idea of using it. Maybe that was Dean's dirty little secret.

Sam made a noise of triumph. Dean drank his coffee, standing at the table. After a little bit, Sam spoke up again, voice much quieter and more sober.

"You can. Use other guns, y'know."

"Even when you jam," Dean responded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "you work better than any other gun I've ever had. Never mind the fact you being a giant-ass .270 rather than, say, a pistol - y'know, something I could actually keep in my jacket - is a huge pain." He patted the rifle. "And I know how much you like to be useful, besides."

Dhake felt himself squint, mouth opening a bit. Was he talking to the gun?

And was it...talking back?

"...came through it okay, though," Dean was saying. Dhake had zoned out a little trying to make sense of what he was watching.

"Yeah. Thanks to Bradley."

"Yep." Dean finished his coffee, ate the contents of the bag. Couple breakfast sandwiches, looked like. Then he pulled a case out of the duffel. Dhake realized it was a gun-cleaning kit when he opened it and started spreading patches and bottles and brushes on the table. "Probably isn't gonna wanna get within ten feet of us ever again, though. Thanks to _you_."

The gun wasn't talking, Dhake decided. It couldn't be.

" _I_ stayed quiet all the way up 'til you were about to shoot him," Sam pointed out.

"I heard all your little sighs."

"You were the one who kept talking to me."

"Yeah, well." Dean headed into the bathroom. Dhake heard him washing his hands. "Whatever." A pause. "I wouldn't have shot him."

"Sure."

It was just Dean, Dhake decided firmly. It didn't _sound_ like him, sure, but it had to be him. A mental break. Probably one a few years old by now. Throwing his voice and sock-puppeting his gun. Dhake had never actually seen anybody do that, with a gun or with anything else, outside of TV, but it was the only explanation that made sense.

This wasn't _Beauty and the_ fucking _Beast._ Ghosts threw people down stairs, werewolves ate children, witches poisoned cocktail parties. Dhake had seen a lot of fucked-up shit in his seven months of hunting, but was pretty sure he could spend seventy years in the trade without ever coming across a magic talking gun.

Dean came out of the bathroom. He took the gun off his back, removed the strap, threw it on the bed. It was leather, high-quality. The protective sigils in it (only a few of which Dhake recognized) looked hand-tooled.

"Dean," the "gun" said, concerned. "You can take a shower first. You're filthy, and you've gotta be freezing."

"I'm fine with the coffee in me. I wanna take care of this first." Dean sat down at the table. "It was a mudbath out there, wouldn't be surprised if you've got rainwater all up in your nooks and crannies. Don't want you to rust. You loaded?"

"No." It (or, rather, Dean) made a huffing noise when Dean checked anyway, but didn't comment on it. "We don't know what kind of effect rust would have. Or if it would even have one at all."

Dhake could see Dean's mouth from this angle. It didn't look like those full, plush lips were moving at all. He was good at this.

God, he really wished he would've put those voice-throwing talents to use while they were fighting the huldras. But the guy was clearly seven-eighths cracked, and that was being generous. Dhake wouldn't expect him to be a master strategist.

"This coming from the guy who wouldn't let me file off his serial number 'cause he was afraid he'd lose an ass cheek or something," Dean replied.

"That was a moot point, you don't need to file the number off a gun that wasn't - "

The gun cut itself off with a gasp when Dean removed the bolt. It was a satisfied noise, like somebody getting their back cracked.

"Hm. 'Moot.'" Dean reached for the case, flipped it open, pulled out a bottle and a brush. "Sounds like it means something dirty." There was a deep, shuddering breath as he put the brush down the rifle's bore. "Like, in French or something."

Dean's movements were slow, methodical. Startlingly precise for somebody who had to have hands every bit as full of pins and needles as Dhake's were, as they warmed up. He didn't bother with a gun vise, just cradled the rifle in those thick-fingered, callused hands as he scrubbed it out. And there was moaning. A lot. From the "gun."

"How many times I told you not to make this weird?" Dean muttered.

"Sorry."

Another moan. Dhake, feeling like he'd accidentally walked in on somebody jacking off to some truly regrettable porn, very much wished he'd let this one go and stayed the hell out of Dean's room.

He remembered, earlier, thinking to himself that Dean probably didn't want to fuck his gun. Looked like he'd been wrong about that.

Dean exhaled hard through his nose, annoyed. The gun stifled another moan.

"I don't know what you want me to do, dude, it's like...getting a massage."

"Yep. Said that before. Doesn't really make it better."

But for all his apparent irritation, Dean was sure handling this thing with a whole lot of unnecessary tenderness. And Dhake really wished he wouldn't. Because there was really something about him gripping the barrel in a fist, fingering the muzzle…

Christ, he needed to get laid. They both clearly did.

"Hey. So." Dean spoke up after a while. He'd been pretty intent on his task for the past couple minutes, zoning out enough to go on touch and stare at a spot on the carpet as he moaned for the gun. "Bradley."

Realizing that Dean was thinking about him while he was doing this sent a skin-crawling shudder through Dhake that was, shamefully, only mostly revulsion.

"What about him?" the gun asked.

"You think I oughta've told him what was going on? With you, I mean."

"I don't know. I'm not...really sure how he'd take it." A pause. "Like you said, he's new. Really new. We don't know how he feels about. Stuff."

What kind of stuff? Dhake wondered. Because there was kind of a lot to choose from. Special new heights and breeds of crazy? Very literal firearm fetishes? Ventriloquism?

"Yeah. Neither am I." Dean put the rifle back together, wiped it down all over. It sighed long and low.

"What kind of impression did you get?" it asked. "Like, what kinda guy d'you think he is?"

"You were there, too."

"I didn't talk to him."

Dean stood, sighing. With his cleaning kit still spread all over the table, he picked the rifle up, cradling it naturally.

"I don't know," he said, crossing the room. He wound up near the closet. Really near, back to the door. Dhake's alarm bells started warming up. "I just don't think we can trust him at all, man."

Before Dhake could react, Dean had swept the door open with a foot, and caught him right in the face with the butt of the gun. There was a ringing burst of blood-colored agony that threw his thoughts into a washing machine, and then nothing.

* * *

Dhake came to slowly, in a series of stuttering, unpleasant jerks. Even before he was fully awake, he knew he'd gotten knocked out, and was pissed about it. This wasn't an accident. Somebody had hit him in the damn head.

It must not have been that hard a blow, because it wasn't long before it all came rushing back to him. His head, which had sort of been lolling around on his neck, snapped up, and he opened his eyes. One felt swollen, brow above it tight and tender.

He wanted a cigarette.

He was staring at Dean, sitting on the bed. He was holding the gun in front of him, stock resting on the floor. Dhake's eyes tracked automatically to the safety. Dean seemed to be holding the rifle specifically so he could see it, and much to his relief, it was on.

His first thought was that he was going to kick this motherfucker's living chest in, followed immediately by his skull. His second, much more rational thought was that he needed to get the hell out of here, and yesterday. He actually tried, then realized a second too late that he wasn't going to get to do anything, because he was tied to the flimsy chair from the room's crappy table, nylon on his wrists and ankles. It was tight enough not to allow him to wriggle out, loose enough not to cut off his circulation or even make him real uncomfortable. Like Dean had gone out of his way not to hurt him.

He could break the chair, easy. The ropes were stronger than something that felt like it was a cut below plywood. But he was desperately, infuriatingly aware that he was in a room with a guy who was not only armed but also so unhinged the whole door had fallen in years ago, and he had no weapons to speak of. He could already feel the knives in his boot and belt were gone.

Also, he might have a concussion. It didn't feel like he did, but they could be sneaky.

"How you feeling?" Dean asked, pleasantly.

"Like somebody clocked me in the face with a rifle butt," Dhake responded, a second before realizing he should maybe try not to be an asshole.

"Well, you were in the closet," Dean replied, then paused. "Anything you...maybe wanna get off your chest about that?"

"Oh, fuck off," Dhake said, completely forgetting the realization and then re-realizing it, again, a second too late.

"Ooo-kay." Dean raised his eyebrows. "Touchy subject. Noted."

"Shut up, I - in high school - my - you tied me to a fucking chair," Dhake fumbled out. Maybe time to rethink that concussion.

"Again. You were hiding in my goddamn closet."

"You were lying to me!" Dhake exclaimed. "With the way you were acting, I just wanted to make sure you weren't gonna sneak into my room and make a skin suit outta me. And from what I've seen, I'm not so sure that's not gonna happen."

Dean arched an eyebrow, lifted the rifle. "What, 'cause of this?"

Dhake tried to force himself calm. He'd seen a couple hostage negotiators in action, and that was what this situation was, wasn't it? Except he was the hostage. He took a deep breath.

"I'm...sorry I broke into your room," he said, voice as even as he could get it. "I understand why you're upset about it. Do you want to tell me about the gun?" He paused, weighing the wisdom of what he wanted to say next, then went for it, carefully asking, "Does your brother know about it?"

Dean let out a sharp little burst of laughter at that. "Ooh, yeah, you could say that."

"Think we're past that, Dean," the gun said. Again, Dean's mouth didn't move at all, and Dhake was yet again grudgingly impressed.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Got no appreciation for comedy." He lifted the rifle again. "This _is_ my brother. Meet Sam."

There was a beat of silence.

"The rifle...is your brother," Dhake said slowly.

"Exactly."

"You think the gun's your brother."

"I mean, it is."

More silence.

"Okay." Dhake took a deep, deep breath. "So. Dean, I'm gonna give you a couple names. They're not shrinks, don't worry, and they're not on the up and up as far as all the monster stuff's concerned, but they helped me a whole lot after - "

"He's not crazy," the gun interrupted. "But I get why you'd think that."

No movement from Dean's mouth. Not even any in his throat. For a second, Dhake felt a flicker of doubt, then squashed it in favor of being annoyed that Dean was turning his own negotiator's tone and terms around on him with his gun-voice.

Dean took a deep breath. "He thinks we're running some kinda Jeff Dunham act," he told the gun.

"No, no," Dhake interjected. "I hate Jeff Dunham, trust me."

Dean ignored him, and Dhake wondered why that, of all things, was what he'd chosen to say.

The gun sighed. "What d'you wanna do?"

"Well, we kinda need him to believe us. Otherwise, pretty much guaranteed he's gonna tell every single other hunter he runs across I'm a few cards short of a deck."

Dhake cut in again. "I won't. I promise. I don't even like most other hunters. This is none of my business, and I'm really, _really_ sorry I stepped in it."

"I'm just not sure how we're gonna do that," the gun said quietly. "If he's dead-set on the ventriloquism angle."

Dean shook his head. "Wish I'd seen the damn mud when I first came in. Wouldn't have talked to you in front of him, otherwise."

Dhake looked down. Saw the trails of muddy bootprints, too small to be Dean's feet, criss-crossing all over the mushroom-colored carpet. Realized he didn't need a concussion to be a fucking moron and swore to himself.

"You talked to me plenty out in the woods," the gun pointed out.

"Yeah, but you weren't talking _back._ "

Dean was quiet for a second, clearly thinking, tongue poking into his cheek as he absentmindedly rubbed a thumb along the barrel of the gun. All of a sudden, it said, "I know what we can do."

"What?"

"It's time."

Dean frowned, then his eyes widened. "Oh. _Oh._ It's time." He fumbled his phone out of his back pocket, cursed. "Shit, battery died. Seems kinda early, though."

"Yeah, but I think I can force it."

"Okay, if you're sure." Dean shrugged, then stood. "Here goes nothing."

He let the gun fall forward, between himself and Dhake. Dhake knew the safety was on but felt a flash of anxiety anyway, tensing.

And then the rifle began to...unfold.

Steel and wood unfurled into flesh, hair, limbs. Hands opened to stop the gun from falling, feet flattened, shoulders and hips spread. It was like watching a butterfly come out of its cocoon, if its wings made up said cocoon. Or more accurately, like the pages of a magazine fanning as it was unrolled. But Dhake couldn't really compare it to anything at all. Not accurately. It wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before.

He stared. The longer he watched, the more sense it made. He could see it, how the man (because it was so clearly a man, he'd been able to tell from the beginning) fit into the gun, and vice-versa. It was a puzzle coming slowly apart, or maybe together. There was a beauty in it.

But also he gagged. A lot. He probably would have puked if he'd had anything to eat or drink since yesterday afternoon's Coke.

 _God,_ did he ever need a cigarette. He would've taken fucking dip at this point.

The next thing Dhake knew, there was a guy kneeling on the carpet in front of him, hair the color of the gun's walnut, eyes the color of the filigree, which Dhake knew now had been hazel. His skin was gleaming, hair looking fresh-washed, which made sense; he'd just been cleaned. That same flaming-pentagram symbol from the stock was inked on his chest. Near it was a healed bullet wound, scar tissue gone all kinds of wacky, almost metal-colored.

And if Dhake had thought Dean was big, this guy put him to shame.

Dhake's eyes dropped before he could stop them, down the flat stomach to the groin, and the guy hastily covered himself with two massive hands. Not before Dhake got a glimpse, though, and felt his eyes just about fall out of his head. Not from the earlier blow to his face, either.

He had a sudden and very unwilling flashback to Dean telling him yesterday that his brother was a huge pain in the ass.

He had another flashback, just as unwilling, to the way Dean touched the gun. Couldn't seem to keep his hands off it.

He thought he might know what those rumors Howie had mentioned were, about these guys.

God, did he ever wish he didn't.

"Uh, hey," the guy said awkwardly, in the same voice Dhake had been hearing for almost twenty-four hours now. The one he'd thought was Dean. "I'm Sam."

He went to offer Dhake his hand, seemed to remember he'd just had it on his dick, stopped. He climbed slowly to his feet, starting to blush across his cheek and collarbones. He turned to Dean soon as he was vertical.

"Could I get, like, a blanket or something?"

"You know I brought you clothes, right?" Dean asked, pulling the stained, faded duvet off the bed and tossing it around Sam's broad shoulders.

"I'll get dressed in a minute." Sam sat down on the bed, gathering the duvet around him and hunching over a little. Like he was trying to hide his size.

Little late for that, Dhake thought distantly as Sam looked at him. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. Sure, his world had gotten a little bigger and a lot darker the better part of a year ago, but there were still _rules._ There were rules everywhere. Even each individual hunter followed rules...usually their own set, no standard, and it seemed to him that most of them were idiots, terrible people, or both. He had a pretty good handle by now on what was and wasn't a thing.

There was plenty out there he hadn't seen. He knew that. But magic, curses, diseases like lycanthropy and vampirism, he got all that. A guy turning into a gun, or a gun turning into a guy, _did not happen._ It was like something out of...of…

"This is like that stupid anime," Dhake surprised himself by stating. "With the Grim Reaper. A-and the kid with the shark teeth."

Sam squinted, confused. Dean clarified, " _Soul Eater._ And no, it actually ain't." He paused. "That'd definitely be really cool, though." He dropped a hand onto Sam's shoulder. "Sammy here got shot by a werebolt."

After a long, long silence after neither Winchester announced they were joking, Dhake flatly asked, "A fucking what."

"A werebolt," Dean explained. "Y'know, it's like a werewolf but it's a bolt-action - "

"I-I think he gets it, Dean," Sam interrupted.

Dean cleared his throat. "Right."

"You're a...werebolt. You turn into a gun. A Winchester rifle."

"Yep."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Dhake told them both.

"He turns into a gun once a month, when the moon's a crescent," Dean said. "We think it's 'cause it looks like a trigger."

Dhake stared. A second later, he decided, "I changed my mind."

Sam took a breath. Dhake started talking before he could.

"That makes zero sense." He shook his head. "Guns haven't even been around that long - "

"Well, pretty long, actually," Sam interjected. "If you look at it in terms of the common era, and you take into account Asia and the Middle East. In fact, some types of weregun actually outdate things like, for example, pistaku, but the origin of the werebolt ties back to Samuel - oh, okay, you don't care." He settled. "Sorry."

Dhake closed his eyes, opened his hands, and shook his head. "Can you please, _please_ untie me. I think I'm getting a migraine."

"Yeah, that'd be the blow to the head."

"Not sure that has anything to do with it."

Dean cleared his throat. "Whether or not we're gonna untie you depends." Dhake opened his eyes, looked at him. Dean was studying him. "You gonna tell anybody about this?"

"What, about the...him?" Dhake gestured to Sam, as well as he could with his wrist ziptied to the arm of a chair. "About you two? No. Absolutely not." He shook his head. "I wish _I_ didn't know."

"Yeah, but some people get a little weird," Dean replied. "When they know somebody isn't human. Trust us, we got experience with this."

Dhake squirmed past the pain in his head, and did his best to put the whole "weregun" thing aside for a second. If Sam had gotten turned into something else on a hunt. Say, a vampire. And he wasn't hurting anybody. Was hiding it as best he could. Was afraid of other people finding out because they might put him down, because he didn't know them or how they'd react before they knew all the details...or even after they did. He guessed he could get that.

"I mean, he's not dangerous," Dhake reasoned out loud. He wouldn't be even if he lost his mind in gun form. Dhake closed his eyes, grimaced. "I hate I'm saying this, but...guns don't kill - "

"Technically, I can fire myself," Sam interrupted. "When I'm, y'know. A rifle."

Dhake opened his eyes.

"Yeah, feels kinda good, apparently," Dean added, then looked down at his brother. "But you need to shut the hell up."

"It's a good thing I got shot and not Dean," Sam told Dhake dryly. "He'd be firing himself dry twice a month no matter where he was."

"How and why," Dhake asked deliberately, "do you _know_ that? And why are you telling me?" He looked up at the ceiling, counted to four as he drew in a breath, held it for four, exhaled for four. "Okay. Whatever. Even with that, it's not like you can do all that much damage unless you get lucky, since somebody still needs to pick you up and - "

"I can sorta control where someone's pointing me," Sam cut in. "Correct their aim. It's kinda like a low-grade possession, we're still working out the - "

"Would you cut it out already?" Dean demanded, giving Sam a little shake.

"I haven't gotten to talk to anybody about this!"

"You geeking out's gonna get us killed. Again." Dean looked at Dhake, guarded. "So. Since it's not like he can take all that back...we gonna have a problem? With you knowing that?"

"I've never cared less about anything in my entire life," Dhake said fervently. "I'm not gonna say a word to anybody, ever, just so long as I never have to talk to either of you ever again. Or see you touch each other."

Sam frowned like he was offended, leaning against Dean's thigh. "What d'you mean?"

"He's homophobic," Dean explained.

"I'm gay!" Dhake exclaimed. "Excuse me for not running around handing that out on a business card, but if you're gonna sit here and suggest I'm...whatever, that's got nothing to do with it, you two are brothers. You're brothers. You're related."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Duh."

"Well, yeah."

"So what the hell's the matter with you?" Dean half-demanded. Sam straightened a little, pulling away from him.

"Wait, I think he thinks we're…"

"Are you fucking serious? Again?"

Sam shook his head in near wonderment, then laughed a little. "Seriously, why do people always think we're a couple?"

Dhake stared. It wasn't until his vision had started to pulse heartbeat-black at the edges that he realized he'd forgotten to breathe.

"I'm not gonna tell anybody," he began, slowly. "I don't give a fuck what either of you are. Or what you are together. Just please, please, _please_ untie me and let me get outta here...or you - " He jerked his chin at Sam. " - turn back into a gun and shoot me."

Sam had the gall to frown again, all eyebrows and pouty little cupid's bow. Like he literally could not imagine why Dhake would be so upset.

"So long as we're cool," Dean stated, and pulled a knife out of his pocket, unfolding it.

"Yep. Cool as can be." Dhake nodded rapidly. "We're a fucking meatlocker in Antarctica."

Dean took a knee, sawing through the zipties one by one. Dhake watched him, jiggling one leg impatiently as soon as he was able to. He absolutely did not notice that wet forest and sweat and gunpowder smelled good on Dean. Because it didn't.

"Sorry again for hitting you in the face with Sam's ass," Dean said conversationally. Dhake didn't remember him apologizing the first time, but didn't say so.

"It was more like my foot." Sam spoke up. "Or maybe my knee. My anatomical map's all - "

"Shut up, Sam," Dean ordered, and Sam did, though he looked a little wounded-puppy about it. He finished with the zipties, then stood. Dhake didn't take the hand he offered him. "Your stuff's on the table."

Dhake went for it, giving the gun-cleaning kit that was still there a wide berth as he grabbed his knives. He froze when Dean spoke again.

"Hey." Warily, Dhake glanced at him. "I really am sorry about…" He gestured. "...all this, y'know. Just can't be too careful. Gotta put family first."

Dhake looked at Sam. The guy blinked large, dewy eyes at him, above cheekbones broad enough to match his shoulders.

"You're a really good hunter," Dean told Dhake. "You get a feel, in this business. For people who are gonna go the distance. Do it for all the right reasons. And you're one of 'em."

"It was great working with you," Sam said, and Dean nodded.

"Maybe we can do it again sometime."

It was only because the one potentially lethal thing within reach of Dean was Sam, who was no longer a gun, that Dhake answered honestly.

"No," he said flatly, and left.

Outside, it was getting close to noon. There was no sign of yesterday's cloud cover, and the brilliant sunlight knocked Dhake reeling sideways. He had to take a second and, much as he didn't want to, lean against the wall right next to the Winchesters' door. He could hear them talking inside.

"Well, that...probably could've gone better," Sam said awkwardly, after clearing his throat.

"You just had to moan while I was scrubbing your bore out," Dean accused.

Dhake pushed himself up and jogged back to his own room soon as he possibly could, swaying sidewalk be damned.

He needed to sleep, concussion or not. He _really_ needed to shower, and scrub more than just mud and grime off him under water in the triple digits. But he needed to get out of this place more than anything else. As far away as possible. Because there was no guarantee at all the Winchesters didn't still see him as a threat, promise or not.

_Just don't get between the two of them._

What exactly counted as getting between them?

It was smart to lay tracks, Dhake told himself. It was all about safety. It was not about the full-body heeby-jeeby accidentally-saw-Grandma-naked-and-then-got-half-a-boner soul-deep squick that was moving him at the very molecular level.

Dhake grabbed his SIG, which he'd left on his bed. If he'd had to fight Dean, he'd wanted it to be quiet, because gunshots (even in a motel full of deer hunters) would bring the sheriff's department and that wasn't something he'd wanted to deal with even this morning. He ejected the last clip, completely spent, and went to put it in its case. Then he paused.

He thought about the rain last night, the mud. How many times he'd fired it. He really ought to clean it, even if it was quick and messy, before anything else.

But then he was thinking about the way Dean cleaned gun-Sam. Held him. Thinking again how it would've been nice, sweet. Hell...even a little bit of a turn-on, just like had occurred to him while he'd been watching. If he didn't know they were fucking brothers.

The two of them just had to go and fuck up everything. His hunt, his life, their relationship, everything.

He needed to get out of here. He was thinking crazy and it wasn't all down to exhaustion and brain damage.

Dhake looked down at the gun again, and tossed it in its case. He'd clean it when he was at least a hundred miles away from the Winchesters.

"Don't give me that look," he told it shortly, before snapping the case shut.


End file.
